Series: Nevermore
by Wyndi
Summary: Raven is not at all happy about the newest arrival to the company. Not surprisingly, the Sandman soon becomes his biggest rival.
1. Chapter One: The Demon In My View

Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, violence, angst.  
  
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)  
  
Summary: Raven is not at all happy about the newest arrival to the company.   
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Inspired by the poem "Alone" by Edgar Allen Poe. Words from same used without permission, so please don't sue. All lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
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Chapter One  
  
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Different.   
  
Odd.   
  
Weird.   
  
Strange.   
  
Enigmatic.   
  
All words I've heard time and time again. When you've been stereotyped as a 'misunderstood soul,' it's easy to slip into the niche that's already been carved for you, keep giving them whatever it is they seem to expect from you. In many ways, it's a lot easier than being yourself, being 'real.' If all you have to do is regurgitate their own preconceived notions back to them, there's no brainwork involved. Just mindless, robotic, reactionary behavior.  
  
// From childhood's hour I have not been  
  
As others were; I have not seen  
  
As others saw; I could not bring  
  
My passions from a common spring \\  
  
Until some cocky, arrogant, know-it-all asshole wanders into your life with the same confidence he carries as he saunters up to the nearest bar to order a beer. Almost from the day we met, I had serious doubts about working with Jim Fullington. His character, "The Sandman," was just as abrasive and headstrong as the actual man. Just another typical would-be superstar. A walking ego trip with a beer gut and a kendo stick. Oh sure, everybody else in the company loved him. And why wouldn't they? He was just the sort of low-class, white trash, uninspiring loudmouthed idiot they could all relate to. He could talk his way into anybody's good graces. Except mine, that is. It'll take a whole lot more than a night out with the boys and a massive bar tab to win me over.   
  
// From the same source I have not taken  
  
My sorrow; I could not awaken  
  
My heart to joy at the same tone  
  
And all I loved, I loved alone \\  
  
I like to work alone. I never liked ongoing feuds involving convoluted storylines, never liked being saddled with a regular tag team partner. Just me, myself, and I. It's funny, though. I'd already made up my mind to hate him from the start, yet the first time we ever stepped in the ring together, it was like 'poetry in motion,' as he is so fond of saying. I had to admit to myself, not only did the fans love the interaction, but we really did work well together. I even swallowed my pride and told him so after our first month of interaction. He was surprisingly humble, which shocked the hell out of me. Not exactly shy, but not receptive to praise of any kind. Hey, the guy can't take a compliment? No problem. It won't happen again.   
  
// Then- in my childhood, in the dawn  
  
Of a most stormy life- was drawn  
  
From every depth of good and ill  
  
The mystery which binds me still \\  
  
So then he decides to turn my whole world upside down. After a particularly brutal show where he laid my scalp wide open with that blasted cane of his, he caught up with me after the match and offered to drive me to the hospital himself. Call it latent guilt. Call it false sympathy. Call it shedding crocodile tears. Just please, for the love of God, don't call it a genuinely nice gesture, because I really don't think I can handle it. I'm supposed to hate him. Helps fuel the on-screen rivalry, you know? So why did he have to be so fucking nice?  
  
// From the torrent, or the fountain  
  
From the red cliff of the mountain  
  
From the sun that round me rolled  
  
In its autumn tint of gold \\  
  
So I'm lying there on the gurney, bathed in a harsh fluorescent glow, already woozy from pain meds, getting my head stitched up and I notice that he's by my side. I'd told the stupid, stubborn, son of a bitch to stay in the waiting room. Did he listen to me? Of course not. All I see is red, I'm so furious with him for not doing as I said. But he looks so... worried about me. I beg of you, please don't tell me this is genuine regret I'm seeing. I'm not willing to accept this. Not from him. But he's watching me with such concern, such intensity in his eyes. His extraordinary eyes. So blue. So expressive. So honest. So...   
  
Dammit, Levy, get a grip on yourself. He is NOT your type, you're NOT interested, and you most certainly are NOT going to ask him to...  
  
"Yes."  
  
This is the Percocet talking. It has to be. It's the repeated blows to the head coupled with pain killers. Is this arrogant fuck reading my mind now? I didn't ask him to...  
  
"Yes, I'll stay with him."  
  
// From the lightning in the sky  
  
As it passed me flying by  
  
From the thunder and the storm \\  
  
Game. Set. And fucking match. Great. Just fucking great. Damned if he's not telling the EMT that he'll stay with me all night at the hotel. 'To watch for signs of concussion,' he says. When it rains, it fucking pours. This is not happening to me. I call bullshit! He's got another thing coming, that's for damn sure. Not a chance in hell, my oh-so-concerned not-friend. I don't need you there, I don't want you there, and I damn sure don't want to think about you watching me as I sleep. Fucking hell, how did I end up in this mess? Why do I get the feeling tonight will hold a few surprises for us both?   
  
// And the cloud that took the form  
  
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)  
  
Of a demon in my view \\  
  
I'm too tired and drugged up to protest any more. He's coming back to the hotel with me. God knows I don't want him there. The bane of my existence. The source of all my frustration. The reason it's no challenge at all to work myself into a seething fury in the ring. I feel nothing for him but irritation. Hate. Anger. Bitterness. Resentment. Rage. It feels so... inevitable. That's what it is. Like this was all planned well in advance, with the storm clouds just biding their time, waiting to move in and cast their shroud over all I've held dear. My convictions. My sense of self. My control.  
  
You've fucked up again, Levy. You've opened up the gates of hell, the demon is running rampant, and you're helpless to stop it. And really, do you actually WANT to stop it? Let's be honest, here. Beneath that brash, know-it-all façade, there's something indescribably appealing about him. You may not be ready to admit it to yourself just yet, but it's there, lurking beneath the surface. If you don't deal with this and I mean soon, you're going to be lost, possibly forever.  
  
Such a gentle hand, as he brushes my hair out of my eyes. Why? Why can't I just tell him to fuck off? To leave me alone? To stop treating me like a damned baby? But you know? Part of me likes this sort of mothering attention. It's such a contrast to how we carry ourselves in public. I don't want to enjoy this. I don't. But there's something more behind his touch. Something in the way he looks at me, something beyond mere concern. I've been playing this game long enough to know what that look means. I've done more than my fair share of initiating the new talent. They're always so intimidated, so nervous, so willing to do whatever I tell them to do. But I honestly don't think I can handle this one. We'll be fighting for the upper hand the entire way.   
  
Am I up for the challenge? 


	2. Chapter Two: This Dark Unfathomed Tide

Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, violence, angst.  
  
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)  
  
Summary: Raven continues to fight the conflicting feelings he's experiencing regarding ECW's newest arrival and doesn't like the conclusions he's reaching.   
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Inspired by the poem "Imitation" by Edgar Allen Poe. Words from same used without permission, so please don't sue. All lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter Two  
  
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Dammit, why couldn't he just stay the hell away from me? I never initiated things with him and I damn sure never wanted to continue them. He found out too fucking quick just what it was that set my blood to boiling, drove me beyond all reason to heights I never knew I could reach with another person.   
  
It's not supposed to happen this way. I'm a loner. I don't need anyone else, and I sure as hell don't need him there, taunting me with what he knows I miss already. The insufferable bastard...  
  
I wonder who I pissed off in a past life that I should have been cursed by prolonged exposure to Jim Fullington. I never asked to be stuck in some stupid storyline with him, nor did I have any interest in the 'exciting new character development' Paul E. had in mind for me. But did I stand my ground, tell him 'no chance in hell?' No. Like a good worker, I just shrugged, told him "whatever you say," and went with the flow. I was never one to make too many waves anyway. Paul E. had already overlooked enough of my own personal issues, I felt like I should probably cut him some slack and at least try to play nice.   
  
// A dark unfathom'd tide  
  
Of interminable pride  
  
A mystery, and a dream,  
  
Should my early life seem; \\  
  
I started dreaming about him after our first night together. The night he stayed in my hotel room after hauling me to the emergency room. A trip I never would have made had he not gotten a little overzealous with his fucking cane, I might add. I think that was the first time I'd shared a hotel room with someone and NOT had sex with them, now that I think about it. I don't know if he expected something more to happen or not. Even if he did, I wouldn't have given in. I'd already made up my mind to despise him and for once, I was going to stick to my guns. But still I dreamed of him. His eyes fixated upon mine, his hands locked in my hair, his mouth...  
  
Dammit, Levy, you're getting off track. Just admit it. YOU'RE the reason you dream about him, and not the other way around. If you didn't spend damn near every hour of the day thinking of new ways to antagonize him, you wouldn't wake up horny, confused, and wondering where he was, would you? This is your fault and nobody else's.   
  
// I say that dream was fraught  
  
With a wild, and waking thought  
  
Of beings that have been,  
  
Which my spirit hath not seen, \\  
  
I should have left the company. I really should have. Because it was all over for me the first time he made me bleed in the ring. I mean REALLY bleed. Fucking Paul E. and his 'no rope/barbed wire' matches. I should have put my foot down and refused to do it. And Fullington... He came up to me immediately after Paul E. announced the match, asking if there was anything I wanted to discuss before we did it. Acting all concerned for my well-being. Like I was some kind of fucking amateur. I blew him off, told him to do whatever the fuck he felt like doing, and leave me the hell alone. He wandered off with a smug, irritating smirk on his insufferable face, like he was in on his own private joke. I briefly thought about calling him back, demanding that he tell me what was going through that sick, twisted mind of his, but I just let him go.   
  
Looking back, I definitely should have insisted on talking about the match beforehand. Had I but known just what he had in mind for me...   
  
// Had I let them pass me by,  
  
With a dreaming eye!  
  
Let none of earth inherit  
  
That vision of my spirit; \\  
  
The bastard insisted upon razor wire. Not just ordinary barbed wire, which is far easier to untangle from hair. Of course, he wasn't sporting a whole lot on top, but still... he should have had more consideration for my own appearance. My hands and forearms were taped up. His were not. And he came out without a shirt on, practically daring me to tear him apart early on in the match. Cocky bastard. Never one to back down from a challenge, I took the fight to him almost immediately.   
  
...and was promptly whipped into the turnbuckle so hard I fell flat on my ass, momentarily stunned.   
  
"Gee, thanks for warning me," I hissed at him. "How about telegraphing a little next time, okay?"  
  
That comment earned me a bitch slap. I paid him back later with a chair shot to the back of the head. Sure, it was a little harder than I'd intended, but you know, the heat of battle, the adrenaline rush... Easy enough to play off as an accident, right? Except that he knew better. He always seemed to be one step ahead of me. He later countered by throwing me full-force into the wire. I had no trouble selling the move as I felt the wire shredding my shirt, tearing my back to ribbons. I struggled to free myself and only succeeded in getting my hair caught up in the wire as well. As I tried to disassociate myself from the pain, I could see him standing over me, brandishing his ubiquitous cane, smirking down at me.   
  
"Ready to go back to the emergency room, Scotty?"   
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
"Have it your way, then."  
  
Crack! Crack! Crack!   
  
Jesus H. Christ! Just one blow would have been sufficient! Now blinded as well as torn to pieces, I could only yank myself forward away from the wire and try to regain some semblance of dominance. Mercifully, he backed off a bit and started showboating for the crowd. God, they loved him. All of his drunken swaggering, his arrogance, his lewd gestures with the cane, they ate it up. And with him distracted and entertaining the crowd, I was able to clear the cobwebs from my brain long enough to escape the ring, yank a leather belt from one of the ring crew, and get back into the ring before he noticed I was back on my feet.   
  
// Those thoughts I would control,  
  
As a spell upon his soul:  
  
For that bright hope at last  
  
And that light time have past, \\  
  
His surprised yelp of pain as I brought the leather slashing down across his back wasn't an act. I'd timed the blow perfectly and shivered in delight at the angry red welt that rose up immediately. He whirled around, spotted me, and began to back away. Was that real fear I saw in his eyes? Did he know he'd finally pushed me too far, genuinely pissed me off? No matter. I advanced on him until he felt the wire at his back. His choices were narrowed down now. Either the barbed wire or the leather belt. Both were going to hurt.  
  
I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of pleasure, knowing that I'd stripped control away from him. Sure, he was older than me, but this was MY playground, after all. The arena of blood, sweat, tears, and pain. This was MY specialty. No smoke-filled, dusty pool hall here. Just the glorious pain. And I was prepared to give him all he could stand and more. There's nothing quite so intoxicating as finding out what a person's limits are and then forcing them to go beyond those limits.  
  
Except he wouldn't let me.   
  
// And my worldly rest hath gone  
  
With a sigh as it pass'd on  
  
I care not tho' it perish  
  
With a thought I then did cherish \\  
  
The last thing I clearly recall before being dragged down into the bliss of unconsciousness was being forced onto my stomach, his weight pressing down on me, pinning me down as he straddled my back, a length of razor wire in his already-bloody hands. He'd doubled the wire and was whipping me across the shoulders with it. Through the haze of pain, I became dimly aware of finding the whole situation strangely erotic, but my thoughts were coming fast and furious at this point, so I hardly think I was seeing things too clearly.  
  
After lashing me a dozen times or so, he proceeded to drag the wire down my shoulders, carving out some kind of pattern in my skin. I knew I had to be delirious by now, because I was definitely getting more and more turned on by a combination of the pain, my vulnerable position, his weight upon me, the knowledge that I'd been beaten, and the unmistakable feeling of his hardness pressing against my back.  
  
Perhaps I should re-think this whole 'hating him' thing... 


	3. Chapter Three: A Dream Within A Dream

Content: Mature subject matter, m/m slash, non-consensual sexual situations, language, violence, angst.  
  
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)  
  
Summary: Raven discovers that sometimes too much introspection is a bad thing.  
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Quotations from "A Dream Within A Dream" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
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Chapter Three  
  
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That sick, sadistic bastard! I can't even begin to describe the boiling rage that overtook me once I saw what he'd done. After our 'no rope/barbed wire' match was over, I was inspecting myself in the mirror, tallying up the damages, and making a mental note to present the 'bill' to Fullington at my earliest opportunity when I finally turned around to see how badly he'd torn the rest of me up. And that's when I saw what he'd done when he was straddling me in the ring.  
  
He'd carved his fucking INITIALS into my back!   
  
I let fly with a string of curses I didn't even realize I knew. I think I gave one of the EMTs a heart attack as well. To my very great surprise, though, the overall damage wasn't as bad as I'd expected. Don't get me wrong, it was a brutal match, but intense prolonged pain along with a good adrenaline rush will do wonders for your perception. But he left me with this little reminder of our time together. His greatest insult thus far. Oh, the ways I would make him pay for this... But I needed time. Time to formulate a suitable attack plan. Come up with something even more insulting and degrading than what he'd done.  
  
After everything that could be patched up was taken care of, I was left alone in the locker room. The building was already nearly empty, with only the ring crew and the clean-up staff still hanging around. Our match had been the main event, and everyone else had bailed as soon as their own obligations were met to head home for the holidays.   
  
Thanksgiving. Some fucking holiday. What the hell have I got to be thankful for? Sure, I've got a good job that I actually enjoy. Well, most of the time, anyway. But other than that, all I have is this thorn in my side that won't go away. This arrogant, insufferable man who has invaded every aspect of my life ever since he was hired. I feel like the past few weeks have been one long, waking nightmare. I don't WANT to think about him. I really don't. But during times like this, when I'm alone with my thoughts, his is the face I see in my mind. His is the voice I hear in my head. His is the touch I feel upon my skin. His is the fire that makes me burn.   
  
// Take this kiss upon the brow!  
  
And, in parting from you now,  
  
Thus much let me avow  
  
You are not wrong, who deem  
  
That my days have been a dream; \\  
  
But I DON'T want this! I want to be as far away from him as possible. That's the only way. If he's not near me, it's easier to hate him, to despise him, to think up new ways to torment him. And I do love to get under his skin. It's almost like an obsession with me, this need I have to try to aggravate him just as much as he aggravates me. I keep hoping that some day soon it'll drive him to seek employment somewhere else. Somewhere away from here. Away from me.  
  
But if I don't want him near me, what excuse, what reason do I have for what I'm currently feeling? Why do I find myself inexplicably sad that he hasn't come by even once to check on me, as is his habit after our matches together? He ripped me apart out there tonight. He fucking branded me, for God's sake! The only reason I should want him here is to drive a fist into his gut, beat that arrogant smirk off his face, make him pay for what he did to me tonight...  
  
And then my thoughts stray to places they should never go. I see him by my side at the hospital, his eyes so full of worry, flinching while I was getting stitched up, almost as if he could feel my pain. Promising to look after me, take care of me, like he could fix what he'd broken. That's the side of him I never expected, never wanted to see. The human side of him. The side of him I cannot help but admire and possibly even envy. God knows I would never go to such lengths for someone I hate. I would never be that concerned for someone who'd only ever set out to irritate me.   
  
But he has...   
  
// Yet if hope has flown away  
  
In a night, or in a day,  
  
In a vision, or in none,  
  
Is it therefore the less gone? \\  
  
I don't want to think about the reason behind his concern. I don't. My mind refuses to accept the possibility that he actually cares about me. And me... What excuse can I possibly have for my reaction to him? How can I hate him and yet crave him at the same time? Just hearing him speak, his inflection, his accent... It can be like nails on a chalkboard and all I can think about is hurting him. Hurting him worse than he's ever hurt me.  
  
But then I hear the way he says my name. "Scotty." The way he draws the vowel sound out, adding that unique Philadelphia touch to it. At times it's the most beautiful sound that I've ever heard. My name from his lips...  
  
Dammit, Levy, when are you going to learn your lesson? You start thinking along those lines and before too much longer, you're going to actually admit you're attracted to the guy. You're supposed to be hating him, remember?   
  
I just don't get how he does it. He can walk into a room, open his mouth, and piss off everyone within earshot in under a minute. And then exactly one minute later, every single person he just pissed off is falling all over themselves to get closer to him because he's just that intriguing. The perfect balance of brash confidence and abrasive wit. Something for everyone, I guess.   
  
// All that we see or seem  
  
Is but a dream within a dream. \\  
  
And even after I fall asleep, I cannot rid my brain of him. Dreamland, where he's nothing like he is in person. He's gentle, considerate, and giving. Everything about him is intoxicatingly wonderful. He's the most perfect lover I could ever hope to be with. He ghosts my lips with his own before gently probing my mouth with his tongue. His taste is like that of some exotic liqueur and I can't get enough of him. His hands are warm as they caress every inch of my body. He makes a quiet sound signifying his need, encouraging me to enter him gently, easily, with all the care and consideration I am capable of. His snug warmth welcomes me and all I can think of is how perfectly suited we are for each other.   
  
// I stand amid the roar  
  
Of a surf-tormented shore,  
  
And I hold within my hand  
  
Grains of the golden sand \\  
  
And then I wake up, my eyes fly open, and he's on top of me. He's holding my arms tightly above my head, his breath hot against my flesh as he bites roughly at my throat. All thoughts of my perfect lover slip away like sand castles in the tide as he forces himself upon me and inside of me, ripping and tearing. Seeking only to hurt me. He drives into me over and over again, exhibiting nothing but brute force, aggression, and violence. When I don't respond the way he wishes, he releases my arms long enough to strike me across the face before re-focusing himself on the task at hand. On taking me over and over again, with more force than any man should be capable of. Until I am left bleeding and weeping beneath him, more shattered and lost than I've ever been in my entire life.   
  
// How few! yet how they creep  
  
Through my fingers to the deep,  
  
While I weep, while I weep! \\  
  
And then I sit bolt upright in bed, bathed in a sheen of perspiration, my breath coming fast and furious, my heart about to leap out of my chest. It was all just a dream. Part fantasy, part nightmare, but all thankfully just a figment of my own overactive imagination. An eternity later, my heart finally stops racing and I'm able to think coherently again. Well, as close to coherent as I'm going to be for a long while. I'm completely torn by the two different sides of him that my mind conjured up to infect my dreams with. Such a contrast of who he actually is. He IS both sadistic and considerate. He proved that to me by taking me to the hospital after splitting my scalp open.   
  
He is so much more than I originally thought him to be. He's not just some brash, overly confident bully, much as I may try to delude myself into thinking otherwise. He's more. He's so much more. And I wish I could force my mind to stop dwelling on the two vastly different incarnations of him. The gentle lover and the brutal animal. The very embodiment of Jekyll and Hyde. I try to cling to the image of him compliant and yielding beneath me. Just one pure, untainted fantasy. Is that too much to ask for? To my very great distress, I find that I can't hold onto it for long.   
  
// O God! can I not grasp  
  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
  
O God! can I not save  
  
One from the pitiless wave? \\  
  
As always, the gentle side of him gives way to the beast. The sadistic bastard in him who demands his own release as well, and doesn't care who he has to hurt to get what he wants. And he ALWAYS gets what he wants. So confident, so assertive, so self assured. In spite of myself, I find myself drawn to that side of him as well, and I realize that I can't decide which personality turns me on more. I find that I cannot picture one without the other anymore. I don't really want him to be anything but the combination of his two natures. Surely there's some happy medium to be found, isn't there?   
  
// Is all that we see or seem  
  
But a dream within a dream? \\  
  
Is it the real James Fullington I'm dreaming about, or what I would like him to be? And if the latter is true, then what the hell does that tell me about my own mental state? God, why did he have to come to work here? Nothing about my life has been normal since that fateful day. Even if he were to leave now, I think I'd find myself missing him.  
  
Just face it, Levy. You want him. You may not be ready to admit it to yourself now, but you do. When all the bullshit excuses are ripped away, you'll see the truth eventually. You're still in the locker room not because you want to sit and think but because some part of you is hoping that just maybe you'll hear a knock on the door and it'll be him, checking up on you at last. Like he always has. Except tonight, after he carved his name in your flesh, claiming you for his own as surely as he has done so in your dreams.   
  
God, the irony of the whole thing is unbelievable. All the antagonizing, all the taunting, all the things I said and did to drive him mad have had the exact opposite effect. I'm the one going crazy thinking about him, dreaming about him, just... wishing he'd come to me. 


	4. Chapter Four: Of Pride And Power

Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, implied violence, angst.  
  
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)  
  
Summary: After suffering a bitter humiliation in the ring at the hands of the Sandman, Raven finds himself alone and contemplative after the match.  
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Quotations from "The Happiest Day" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter Four  
  
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I should tell him how I feel. That's the only way I'm ever going to be able to think straight again. I'll be as honest with him as I can possibly be. Of course, knowing me, I'll find some way to make a shambles of the whole conversation and he'll probably end up on the floor, laughing his ass off. But you know? I don't care. It would almost be worth risking the blow to my pride just to get all this off my chest once and for all. Of course, he could always choose to use that information against me, ridicule me in front of the other guys, make my work environment even more of a living hell than he's already made it. And I don't think I could tolerate that. There are few things I hold as dear to myself as my pride.   
  
I think that's why his actions tonight got to me so badly. Carving his name on my body. Like he's trying to claim ownership of me. Advertising for all the world to see that I belong to him when nothing could be farther from the truth. I belong to no man. I am the master of my own destiny and no blue-eyed, know-it-all, loudmouthed asshole is going to have any effect whatsoever on how I choose to live my life or who I choose to spend my time with.   
  
// The happiest day, the happiest hour,   
  
My sear'd and blighted heart has known,   
  
The brightest glance of pride and power   
  
I feel hath flown \\  
  
God, the sheer arrogance of the man... Just when I think he can't get any more insufferable, he goes and pulls something like this and surprises me anew. Right when I was starting to get almost comfortable working with him, getting used to his overbearing personality. When I was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, there might be a chance we could actually engage in something approximating friendship.   
  
And with one simple action, he's thrown me back into chaos. Two letters. J-F. James Fullington. The bane of my existence.  
  
I shouldn't be this upset. I've certainly done worse things to myself before. But I have to ask myself in all honesty, is it the act itself that I'm so outraged at or is it the person who did it? You know, Levy, I think you've finally hit the nail on the head. If it had been anyone else, you would have laughed it off over a beer after the show. But instead you're still sitting here in the locker room, all alone, waiting for the very man who marked you for his own. Hoping he'll come see you. Deluding yourself into thinking you have some sort of power over him, some sort of appeal that you can use to your advantage.   
  
// Of power, said I? Yes, such I ween   
  
But it has vanish'd, long alas!   
  
The visions of my youth have been   
  
But let them pass. \\  
  
But that's the thing. I never DID have any semblance of control over him. But God, how I wish I did. More than anything, I wish I had the ability to direct his thoughts and his actions. How I would love to be able to twist and contort his emotions and his body, as I bring him to such glorious levels of pain and pleasure... Okay, penis? You can stop with the input any time now. I can make enough of a fool of myself without any help from you.  
  
So where was I? Oh yes. There's still the matter of telling that insufferable prick how I feel about him so he'll get out of my head. Yes. That's what needs to happen. And it better happen soon because I can't take much more of this. I refuse to allow myself to be driven crazy by a man who doesn't give a damn about how I feel...  
  
Oh, great. I thought I'd turned my phone off. I know exactly who it is, too. The guys who don't really have families to go home to. Just looking for some extra company as they hit the bars. Normally I'd be up for it, but I'm really not in the mood to be sociable tonight. I'll just bow out politely and...  
  
Unless it's... No way. How would he even get my number? Like hell, I'm going to answer it.   
  
// And pride! what have I now with thee?   
  
Another brow may e'en inherit   
  
The venom thou hast pour'd on me  
  
Be still my spirit. \\  
  
"Yeah? Of course I know who this is. No, I haven't left the arena yet. There was that small matter of getting stitched up by the EMTs after the match, you know. Yeah, I'm okay. Really, I am."  
  
Why the hell am I being so nice to him? Say it with me, Levy. He's an asshole. You hate his guts. Tell him to fuck off. Hang up the phone.  
  
"No, really, I'm just fine. Nothing I haven't gone through before, you know."  
  
Well, except for that whole 'monogram' business, but still...  
  
"No, I don't really have plans for the holidays. Don't exactly have much in the way of family. Well, I'm pretty much a loner anyway, so it all works out. I never really needed to surround myself with a horde of people."   
  
// The smile of love, soft friendship's charm   
  
Bright hope itself has fled at last,   
  
'T will ne'er again my bosom warm  
  
'Tis ever past. \\  
  
What the hell? I shouldn't 'deprive people of the privilege of getting to know the real me?' What on earth is that shit? He's serious. He's actually serious for once. Figures this would happen when he's God knows how many miles away by now.  
  
"I just didn't expect to hear from you. I thought you'd headed off to do... whatever it is you do when you're not at work."  
  
Get hammered and go home with some trashy bar girl, probably.  
  
"No, man, I didn't mean to imply that you'd be that shallow. I just... I have no idea what it is you do when you're not at work. That's all. I didn't mean any disrespect."  
  
Great, so now the bastard is reading my mind. Or trying to, at any rate. Good thing he doesn't know what's REALLY on my mind...  
  
"What's that? You can't be serious, man. I mean, we don't hang out, we don't really socialize after the shows. Hell, we can barely tolerate each other IN the ring, let alone outside of work."  
  
Tell him no. Tell him no. Tell him no.  
  
"Well, if you've already gone to all the trouble... Yeah, I know the area. Just give me the address."   
  
// The happiest day, the happiest hour,   
  
Mine eyes shall see, have ever seen,   
  
The brightest glance of pride and power,   
  
I feel has been. \\  
  
God, please strike me dead. I'm going to spend the holidays with the one man I hate more than anyone else on this planet. And the only man I've ever been completely, absolutely, hopelessly addicted to. Am I the only one who didn't see this coming a mile away?   
  
He already owns me. I may as well stop fighting whatever this is and let it happen. Whatever IS going to happen, that is. I can't even speak of it out loud for fear of shaming myself even further, but it's always at the forefront of my brain. He absolutely terrifies me and yet thrills me beyond words. What's to be asked of me tonight? And will I have the strength to resist if need be?  
  
Pride be damned. 


	5. Chapter Five: In The Fever Of A Minute

Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language.  
  
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/ Scott Levy (Raven)  
  
Summary: Raven has reluctantly accepted an invitation to join his rival for the holidays.  
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Quotations from "To M--" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter Five  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Quite probably the stupidest decision I ever made was accepting Jim Fullington's invitation to spend the holidays with him. At his place. Alone. Which is the last place I ever wanted to be, completely at the mercy of whatever fancy may strike him. And he's a man of many unusual tastes, if the talk I hear around the locker room is any indication.  
  
And I put myself here.  
  
Oh sure, I could blame it on my own incredibly stupid and irrational obsession with him. How every time I think of him, something in my stomach flutters involuntarily like a moth dashing itself against a light. How every time I hear him speak my name, I wish I could die on the spot so that would be the last sound I'd ever hear in this world. How the one thing I really want from him, I can safely say I'll never have.  
  
Love. Real love.   
  
// O! I care not that my earthly lot   
  
Hath little of Earth in it,   
  
That years of love have been forgot   
  
In the fever of a minute: \\  
  
I know what love is. It's a give and take relationship. It's a sharing of souls, a combining of dreams, a merging of two selves into one entity. And it's something he knows nothing about. I can tell by what little time we've spent together. The way he talks about past interests with a dismissive air, like nothing matters more to him than a carton of cigarettes. The man is a pig. That much is clear to me. And I have no desire to spend the rest of my days with someone who has no more concern for me than he does his next drink. No, scratch that. He's obviously an alcoholic, which means he DOES care about his next drink.   
  
Fuck, I'm getting off track again. Get with the program, Levy. Let's rationalize this.  
  
Were I ever to be so foolish as to even attempt any kind of partnership with him beyond the one we currently have, I'd simply run head-on into the brick wall of his stubbornness. His need to always have things go his way, to be the one in control, calling the shots. And that's something I just can't take. If I'm going to be involved, I'd damn well better have some say in what happens. None of his cocky, arrogant "you'll take it because I said so" bullshit.   
  
// I heed not that the desolate   
  
Are happier, sweet, than I,   
  
But that you meddle with my fate   
  
Who am a passer by. \\  
  
I keep telling myself that I didn't ask for this kind of attention from him. I didn't ask for his imposition, his opinions, or his outwardly innocent offer of friendship. But if I want to be really honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I did. Not by my own words, mind you, but by my actions. I always managed to put myself in his way, push his buttons, make damn sure he remembered every encounter we had, either in the ring or backstage.   
  
And everything seems to be going according to whatever plan fate has in store for me. Because I'm now on my way to his house. Shack. Apartment. Whatever the hell he calls home in this godforsaken city. It's probably some rat-infested, filthy, housing project right on the banks of the Delaware River. Wonder if I should've asked him if I needed a tetanus shot first. Oh, but that would be rude. God forbid I offend the man, right?  
  
And I don't know what the fuck he thinks we're going to eat. Cheap bastard probably ordered a pizza or has a pot pie in the oven. Or if he's feeling particularly generous, maybe it'll be macaroni and cheese or fish sticks. Now THERE'S a nice, traditional holiday meal. The moron probably hasn't cooked a real meal in... well, his entire life, I'd guess. Why learn to cook when you can snap up Ramen noodles at four for a dollar at the local supermarket?   
  
// It is not that my founts of bliss   
  
Are gushing- strange! with tears-   
  
Or that the thrill of a single kiss   
  
Hath palsied many years- \\  
  
When did I get to be such a cynical bastard? I didn't used to be this hateful and bitter. I guess one too many failed relationships will do that to you. And really, what do I honestly want out of this night? A new beginning? A chance to start over without any of the condescending scorn I've shown him? And would one simple kiss be too much to ask? Will my pride even allow me to ask for that which I know I don't deserve?  
  
Hell, he'd probably laugh right in my face and be right in doing so. Not that I think I'd ever manage to work up the nerve to do anything so bold, brash, and completely out of character. He's obviously intrigued by what little of me I've allowed him to see, so why should I try to change his perceptions of who I am? Or maybe, and this is a stretch, maybe he sees something else when he looks at me with those piercing eyes of his. Something I possibly don't even see inside myself. Something worth taking a chance on.  
  
Or maybe he's just looking for an easy fuck.   
  
// 'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs   
  
Which have wither'd as they rose   
  
Lie dead on my heart-strings   
  
With the weight of an age of snows. \\  
  
Well, there it is. At least it doesn't look like a slum. Not exactly up to Philadelphia Society's standards, perhaps, but definitely not the hovel I was expecting. The architecture is a bit more suited to my own taste, I think. The gargoyles are a nice touch, too. Hmm, the area really isn't that bad. It might not be a bad neighborhood to move to, should I ever tire of the commute from Jersey...   
  
What the fuck am I thinking? I'm not moving. And I'm certainly not moving closer TO him. Seeing him at work is enough. Well, that and the occasional after-work socialization if tonight goes well. VERY occasional. No need to long for something that can't be. Doesn't matter. His actual apartment will probably be more like what I was expecting, dusty and unkempt, much like him.  
  
The moment of truth would appear to be upon me. I could walk away right now or press the doorbell. Either way, the decision is wholly mine. God, I don't want to do this. And yet, I somehow HAVE to do this.  
  
"Yeah, I'm downstairs. You wanna buzz me in or something? Thanks."  
  
And once again, I'm proven wrong. I guess that 'everyman' persona of his is a bit more lucrative than I'd originally guessed. I mean, this place is nothing fancy, but it's really not that different from my own humble residence.   
  
And once again, I'm at yet another point of no return. Hmm, I wonder if he grasps the irony of living in apartment 237. Probably not. I doubt he's read anything more challenging than the latest stories in Penthouse Forum. Well, enough stalling. The next few moments will define my future interaction with this man.   
  
// Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!   
  
On my grave is growing or grown-   
  
But that, while I am dead yet alive   
  
I cannot be, you see, alone. \\  
  
No, no, no. You are NOT going to make the first move. A passionate kiss is NOT a way to greet someone you've been telling yourself over and over again that you hate. You will NOT do this, Levy. No fucking way. Say hello. Insult him. Punch him. Do something. Anything. Just do NOT kiss him.  
  
My God, what have I done? 


	6. Chapter Six: The WideOpen Gate Of Dreams

Content: Mature subject matter, m/m slash, language.  
  
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman), Scott Levy (Raven)  
  
Summary: After having joined Sandman for the holidays, Raven learns that he's past the point of no return.  
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Quotations from "TO -- --" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter Six  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
He's in the other room right now, curled up beneath the sheets, head buried under the pillows. Passed out. If I listen closely enough, I think I can even hear him snoring. Very softly, almost impossible to hear over the radio he insisted on leaving on. Classic rock. The volume just low enough for me to make out what the song is, but apparently not loud enough to keep him awake.  
  
Now me, on the other hand...  
  
I'm so tempted to go in there and lift the pillows from his head and just stare at him while he sleeps. It's one of the few times he actually looks helpless. Alone. Vulnerable. So completely different from how he is around me. How I've been accustomed to thinking of him. I thought I had all the answers. I thought I could predict his actions. I thought....   
  
That's where I fucked up. I thought.   
  
// Not long ago, the writer of these lines,   
  
In the mad pride of intellectuality,   
  
Maintained "the power of words"- denied that ever   
  
A thought arose within the human brain   
  
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: \\  
  
Part of me wants to take advantage of this rare moment and run like hell, just get as far away from him as I can possibly get. Are the ends of the earth far enough? And yet another part of me wants to go dig through his kitchen drawers, find the nearest sharp object, and ram it through his temple, putting an end to this obsession once and for all. And then the part of myself that I shudder to acknowledge wants to go in there, crawl back into bed with him, and hold him in my arms once again.  
  
How the fuck can I love and hate him at the same time?  
  
I didn't come here expecting to end up in bed with him. I really didn't. I was just accepting an invitation to join him for the holidays. I had nowhere better to go, he was obviously bored out of his fucking skull, and I was at least marginally curious about what he might be like away from work. Would he still be the same arrogant bastard who was always trying to one-up me? Or was it all an act, a way of covering up some insecurity or other? Curiosity got the better of me and like an idiot, I showed up on his doorstep, not really looking for anything more than a few answers to my unspoken questions.  
  
Wasn't that morbid fascination reason enough? Why did things have to get so complicated? When did I let my guard down? And why the fuck did I have to kiss him the second I walked in the door? Oh, sure, we both blew it off, I pretended I was three sheets to the wind, and he appeared to accept that excuse. For the time being, anyway. And once that little embarrassment was out of the way, things progressed relatively normally. Well, normal enough where the both of us are concerned, at least.  
  
Not surprisingly, I quickly found out that he was no different in the privacy of his own home. Just quieter. Well, marginally quieter. I think one of the biggest shocks was that he turned out to be not too bad of a cook. Granted, stir-fry isn't exactly the first thing that springs to mind when I think about a holiday meal, but what the fuck? I wasn't the one fixing the meal. Seems all that time he spent in Japan made him develop a taste for Teriyaki. And I guess it IS a holiday meal if you're Japanese.   
  
// And now, as if in mockery of that boast,   
  
Two words - two foreign soft dissyllables -   
  
Italian tones, made only to be murmured   
  
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew   
  
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"   
  
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,   
  
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, \\  
  
And why the fuck am I thinking about food right now? It's 3 in the morning and I'm not hungry. And I'm not gonna lie to myself, either. I'm desperately trying to think about anything BUT the man in the other room right now. About the feel of his hands locked in my hair, his mouth bruising mine, his skin sliding against mine, his body pressing me down into the mattress, his intoxicating taste filling my mouth. About how hard I can feel myself growing just thinking about him, to say nothing of the roller coaster of sensations he put my body through tonight.  
  
And I can't deny the strange feeling of completion I have.  
  
I don't even remember when we made the transition from having an after-dinner smoke to me being flat on my back on the living room floor. Did he tackle me? Did I dare him to? Were we both drunk? Well, he's ALWAYS drunk, but that's beside the point. In any event, we'd just barely finished smoking and I think I made some comment or other about wanting another drink. He turned the full force of those ocean-blue eyes of his on me and it was all over. I forgot my conviction, my purpose, my own name, even.  
  
It was like I closed my eyes and got catapulted into some kind of alternate universe. One where he speaks my name and it's the most heavenly sound in the world. One where he is every bit the tender, considerate lover I fantasized about him being. One where he makes sure I've found my own release, his mouth soft, warm and moist upon my shaft. One where he's shoving me over the arm of the sofa and taking me roughly from behind.  
  
And I'm loving every minute of it.   
  
// Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions   
  
Than even seraph harper, Israfel,   
  
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")   
  
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.   
  
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.   
  
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,   
  
I cannot write - I cannot speak or think -   
  
Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling \\  
  
Why did I fight the inevitable for so long? Why did I think there should only be tenderness from him? The brutality that is a part of his makeup blends so seamlessly with the rest that I can't imagine him being anything other than what he is. Crude, giving, controlling, considerate, ruthless, gentle, brutal, relentless. Perfect. All my illusions have been shattered and I don't want him to ever be any other way. Or with anyone else. I want to be his object of affection, his shameless whore, his proving ground...  
  
God, I'm pathetic. I really should go find the nearest blunt instrument and bash his skull in. I'm not a fool. I can see all too clearly now where this is going. He knows I've fallen completely head over heels for him. I think I made that pretty fucking clear earlier tonight. And now that he's got me where he wants me, he's going to set about destroying me, one step at a time.  
  
But what if he doesn't?   
  
// This standing motionless upon the golden   
  
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams.   
  
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,   
  
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,   
  
Upon the left, and all the way along,   
  
Amid empurpled vapors, far away   
  
To where the prospect terminates - \\  
  
Just stop. Don't even go there, Levy. Guys like you never get what you want. You're destined to live a life alone, never mattering enough to one person for them to want you with them for all time. You're only good for a little bedroom recreation and when the newness has worn off, you'll be tossed out on your ass. Isn't that the way it always works? Having your own inadequacies pointed out to you time and time again. Being told all your life how you wouldn't know how to live with yourself if you weren't miserable. Disposable. Forgettable. Nothing special. A martyr sacrificed on an altar of unfulfilled dreams.  
  
But now I have to ask... Can one man's life change so much in the course of a single night? Now that I've learned almost too late in life that there really is one person I don't think I could ever live without.   
  
// Thee only. \\  
  
Him only. 


	7. Chapter Seven: Silent In That Solitude

Content: Mature subject matter, m/m slash, language, BDSM, violence.  
  
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman), Scott Levy (Raven)  
  
Summary: Raven learns that there's only so far he can push the Sandman before it becomes too much.  
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Quotations from "Spirits of the Dead" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
I am so fucked. I should have known there was more fury than feeling in him. What made me think testing his limits was a good idea? Now I'm in a world of trouble and I have nobody but myself to blame for it. How did we go from lying in bed together sharing a cigarette to this? How far is he going to take this game, anyway?  
  
"Jim? What do you think you're doing? Untie me right now. I mean it!"  
  
"Shut up, Scotty. I'll untie you when I'm fuckin' well ready to."  
  
"I'm serious! This isn't funny. You're starting to weird me out, man."  
  
"You don't shut up, I'll find a way to shut you up. Ya got me?"  
  
So much for being assertive, Levy. All you're going to do now is piss him off and then he's going to think up even more vile things to do to you. God, do I even want to know what he's capable of? What his sick, twisted mind might dream up? Why the fuck did I ever accept that invitation to dinner? How could I have let my guard down so much?   
  
// Thy soul shall find itself alone   
  
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone;   
  
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry   
  
Into thine hour of secrecy. \\  
  
Pain. Glorious pain. Comforting in its familiarity. Enlightening in its clarity. My world of shadows brought under the harsh spotlight of his blue-eyed stare. There are no secrets, no hidden thoughts when one is in the throes of exquisite agony. I love it. I hate him for making me admit it to myself, but I crave this attention. So personal. So invasive. So very, very wrong.  
  
"You like that, Scotty? You do, don't you?"  
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
"You'd like me to, wouldn't you?"  
  
"Fucking asshole!"  
  
"You flatter me. Have some patience, ya fuckin' slut."  
  
"I am NOT a slut! Now let me go!"  
  
"Calm down, Scotty. There's plenty of time for fun later. If you're still up for it, that is. I know I will be."  
  
"Is that supposed to be funny?"  
  
"Guess you've had enough of a breather. Brace yerself, Scotty. Wet leather hurts from what I hear."  
  
Well, he wasn't kidding, was he? I'm going to have a fun time trying to explain these marks the next time I go to work, that's for damn sure. I wonder how much longer he's planning on keeping me strung up between the bedposts. Surely he'll get tired of his little games before too much longer. Before my body and my pride give out, at the very least. That's the last thing I ever want to do, beg, especially in front of HIM. I'd have to kill myself, I think. There is no way I could live with that kind of shame. I can NOT cry out.   
  
// Be silent in that solitude,   
  
Which is not loneliness - for then   
  
The spirits of the dead, who stood   
  
In life before thee, are again   
  
In death around thee, and their will   
  
Shall overshadow thee; be still. \\  
  
How many other people have been put in this situation before me? How many other souls were broken and shattered by his unrelenting cruelty, his seemingly tireless brutality? Did any of them thank him for such 'enlightenment?' I seriously doubt it. This isn't entertainment. It isn't fun. It isn't even sensual. He's just hurting me for the sake of hurting me.   
  
And yet every time he stops to drink a beer, take a shot of Jack Daniels, light another fucking cigarette, while my mind cries out in relief, my body feels lonely somehow. Like what he's doing to me has become a comforting, familiar kind of attention. This pain is so personal. When he's laying that leather across my back, he's completely focused on me. I can even pretend that we're the only two people in existence. That my entire world is that red wave of agony that washes over me again and again with every lash, bringing me one step closer to Heaven.   
  
// The night, though clear, shall frown,   
  
And the stars shall not look down   
  
From their high thrones in the Heavens  
  
With light like hope to mortals given \\  
  
"Ready to admit you like this yet?"  
  
"Eat... shit... fucker..."  
  
"Hmm, you sound tired. Maybe I should let you take a little nap."  
  
"I'm... FINE."  
  
"So you're ready for more, then? Maybe something a little more serious than leather this time..."  
  
"I... can take... whatever you... dream up!"  
  
"Well, if that's the case, I may as well stop, right? No point in going on if yer so fuckin' tough, right?"  
  
"No! I mean... what I meant was..."  
  
"You don't WANT me to stop, do you?"  
  
"I didn't say that..."  
  
"The eyes never lie, Scotty. Yer enjoying the shit outta this. You just can't admit it. Not yet, anyways."   
  
// But their red orbs, without beam,   
  
To thy weariness shall seem   
  
As a burning and a fever   
  
Which would cling to thee for ever. \\  
  
I can't say it. I WON'T say it. I can't admit that he's right. Never. Not if my life depended on it. Fuck me, he's gonna make me say it. It's his singular goal, to make me admit he's right. And in the end, he'll win. If I don't just come right out with it first, that is. Keep your fucking mouth shut, Levy. Do NOT respond to him. He's just trying to manipulate you into admitting...  
  
"Yes! Yes, dammit, yes!"  
  
"You finally gonna admit it?"  
  
"You were right..."  
  
"That's a good boy... such a good boy..."   
  
// Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,   
  
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;   
  
From thy spirit shall they pass   
  
No more, like dew-drop from the grass. \\  
  
Such tenderness. After all he put me through, he can still show me such consideration, such gentleness. Rubbing lotion into my lacerated back, massaging the ache from my shoulders, softly stroking my hair. It's so hard to hate him when he's being so... so unlike himself. And even though his hands are braced on my back as he prepares to enter me, he's being so careful not to aggravate my injuries.  
  
Even the burning pain of entry pales in comparison to what I feel knowing that once again he's gotten the better of me. But still, I can't hate him. His body is pressed against mine and the blood that still seeps from my back has run down my back to provide a new and different kind of lubrication. The sharp coppery smell fills my nostrils and sets my senses on fire. He can smell it, too, and it drives him into a renewed frenzy of snarling and growling and more and more brutal thrusts.   
  
// The breeze, the breath of God, is still,   
  
And the mist upon the hill   
  
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,   
  
Is a symbol and a token.   
  
How it hangs upon the trees,   
  
A mystery of mysteries! \\  
  
My head is a mess of confusion. Everything I thought I knew was wrong. All my beliefs about what I wanted in a partner, in a relationship. All of it, bullshit. It's all been just a fragile spider web of illusions. All that matters, all that's real, all that I want, all that I need...  
  
...is him. 


End file.
